The Way to Love (Part 1)

I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.

This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.

To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.

The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.

I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.

The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.

In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!

After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?

My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.

Family Friends

There was a concept discussed in my Religions of China class during my sophomore year of college that really struck me: filial piety. Filial piety is the respect of the child for the parent, and it is one of the utmost virtues set forth by Confucius. Basically, it is the responsibility of the child to uphold the family name, honor the parents, take care of them, and ensure male heirs. I had trouble with all of these, the least reason of which being that I won't be producing any heirs in the near or even the distant future. By societal standards, since I won't be continuing my family name, I will be doing them dishonor. I took this to heart, and since that class, I've felt responsible for the emotional well-being of my parents.

While reading Boundaries has helped me draw the necessary lines and allow my parents responsibility for their own well being, a big boost came this morning over brunch at Mimi's when it finally clicked to me that my parents had a lot of friends and that they could actually go out and do things with their friends and have a lot of fun. This hadn't occurred to me when they announced their joining a wine club. This hadn't occurred to me when my dad texted me pictures from mountain running with his friend. It only occurred to me when my mom announced that she and my dad had been invited to spend some time in their friends' beach house in San Diego, just parents because none of the kids would be available.

It's kind of funny when I think about the little prison of naiveté in which I've kept myself locked for so long. I seriously believed that being an empty nester was the end of the world, and well, let's be honest here, after watching my dad fall asleep on the couch at 7:45, I'd begun to wonder. Nonetheless, the realization that both of them can still go out and have fun, even when I don't call, promises to be very liberating. They want me around; they don't need me around. If I choose not to accept an invitation home, they won't be permanently wounded. It all sounds so silly, but I'm actually excited, not because I want to see my parents less, but because I don't have to bend over backwards to keep them happy.

Ah! Ooh! Ah!

My body is screaming this morning. No, not literally; that would just be weird. More like a rusty gate being blown by the wind. My back is stiff, my legs are stiff, my arms are stiff, and there is a large abrasion at the edge of my armpit. And I'm still just getting started with my 20s!

My friend/grasshopper suggested we go running yesterday. I thought this would be a great idea, because I've been slacking a little too much lately on the running front. We settled on Runyon Canyon at 1:00. Swell. Well, as it turns out, this Saturday happened to be the first of the month, which means that my running group goes to Santa Monica, which is one of those things I just don't miss. So I went, and nobody else showed, which meant that I got to choose my own run, about three miles across the sand (and through flocks of snowy plovers, which, I might add, are arguably the most adorably squeaky birds in the world). It was cold, but the beach was empty and the sand pleasantly squishy. I felt pretty good by the end.

By the time young Grasshopper and I arrived at Runyon Canyon, I still felt pretty good and even suggested that we take the steep trail, just for some extra hill work. The only problem was that the last time I had done these hills, I'd been hiking, not running. Big difference. It didn't take long for Grasshopper to hop ahead of me, perhaps fifty feet after the trailhead.

By the time we reached the top of the tallest cliff/hill, I was staggering with legs of Jell-O and lungs of dust. He was tired, but hardly doubled over and wheezing. He'd joined a marathon team, on my own recommendation, and clearly, it was paying off for him. By contrast, I've been running with this group for almost two years, and I've been getting less and less enthusiastic about it by the day. Why?

I joined the group solely because it was a gay group, intent on finding instant commonality and perhaps romance. Not so. After two years, I'm still regularly the youngest person in the group by ten to forty years. I'm still regularly the fastest person in the group. Once in a while, there will be a visitor who pushes me, but as was made painfully aware to me on the run yesterday, I have been slowing down, a lot.

I acknowledge that my competitive days ended in high school and that my passion for running has largely eroded away, yet the realization that I was the struggling old man, reluctant to take that second lap, hit me hard. I'm still sitting too much for work, driving to the gym instead of running, losing my flexibility, to the point that, although I will never be a medal-winning runner again, I miss the potential. I think that I need to seriously rethink my workout plan, i.e. find a new group with better workouts and faster, more passionate runners. I'll add that to the list of New Year's Resolutions, and maybe next year, the Year of the Rabbit, I'll be ready to face those hills of Runyon again and show that young whippersnapper what's what. First, though, some hot tubbing and an Advil may be in order. Ooh... Ah...

Familiar

There is a familiar deer in a familiar forest eating familiar grass under a familiar blue sky. It dines with familiar squirrels and listens to familiar birds. It hears a familiar twig snap and recognizes the familiar smell of danger. And so it bolts, in a way familiar to us.

In the past few years, dating has become a cervine lifestyle: The moment I hear that familiar twig snap, I don't care if it's a mountain lion or a careless rabbit, I'm ready to get the hell out of there. It wasn't always this way. In fact, there was a time when I used to lie down and present my vulnerable underbelly to the mountain lions and say, "Here, this portion would be rather tasty, don't you think?" Unfortunately, when the mountain lions decided I didn't taste very good after all, I learned that self subjugation hurts worse than being disemboweled. Now, I'm not so much fleeing for fear of pain as for fear of shame.

I've broken things off with the Gentleman about five times now, but we're still dating. I attribute this to the fact that I haven't actually mentioned it to him. The past two weeks, the twigs have been snapping left and right, but I just can't tell if it's a mountain lion or a rabbit trying to mess with me. I madly want to know: Is he watching me? Is he interested? Why isn't he responding to me? Why doesn't he ask me about such and such? What is he doing messing around online at four in the morning when I sent him a text message question at two this afternoon? Shit, I'm out of here. Oh... There was a family feud... and he figured I was asleep by the time it was done... and he didn't get up until late. Okay, that's kind of considerate. Rabbit in lion's clothing.

Next time: Waiting late for a call to hang out. No call. Send passive-aggressive text about call. No answer. Find answer next morning: babysitting nephews. Respond. Nothing until later.

It's this crazy pinball track from fight to flight to collapse, and it's reawakening a side of me that I really hoped had been dragged away by the mountain lions. Now, every time there is no immediate response, I instantly develop a new scenario in which he is a combination of all of my exes: their journeys that I hinder, their secrets, their affairs, their lies, their patronizations. The psychosis takes less than five minutes to start and an hour to explode into this absurd, self-loathing, woe-is-me, screw-dating mentality, which, once the rabbit pulls off the lion's mask, leaves me ashamed again, yet insufficiently so to prevent another lapse the next time.

So basically, I am a familiar deer in a familiar meadow, waiting for the familiar snap of a familiar twig, but where it is snapping and where to run, remain unfamiliar. The more I run, the more exhausted I become. But what is the alternative? How does one face the lion's mask and still be happy after it's revealed to be a rabbit? Furthermore, how does one enjoy the meadow when there may be a lion nearby? This isn't one of nature's unavoidables; there are methods of defense, but what are they... in the world outside of simile?

Update
Now that he got back to me and very casually brushed me off on our evening plans without a "Sorry" or a "Wish you could be here," but a promise that he would send pictures from his imminent week-long trip, the decision is made. I'm not running; I'm kicking his ass out of the meadow. Positive attitudes aside, I think I have a right to be angry, and in response to the stereotype that people with Asperger's can't take social cues, I'm a hell of a lot more observant than he is. And here I am shaming myself for being pessimistic. You know what? It's better to be single and alone than involved and alone on a Saturday night. Central finger... salute!

The Gentleman

Old habits die hard, this one harder than the rest. It's cost me plenty over the years, and I've gone through all manners of counsel to be cured of it. It's left me sweating at night and cold in the morning, wealthy on Friday and broke by Sunday, on Cloud 9 at the start of the month and in Provo by the end. I've been "sober" for almost a year, but in the last few weeks, the great whirlpool has finally sucked me back into... dating.

Yup, I've been asked out. A couple of times in fact... And then I asked back... And so far, things have been going pretty darn well, and I'm terrified.

"Why, Kyle, would you be terrified of things going well?" might ask Hypothetical Post Viewer.

"Well, HPV," I would respond, "when things have started well in the past, they have ended very badly in the future."

"But you've made some major progress in the past few years," would retort the Hypothetical Post Viewer. "You've connected with yourself, learned how to subdue your impulses for control, and stopped idealizing other people."

"That may be so, HPV, but I have not yet tested my progress with another person. It's scary! Don't you know anything about testing?"

In any case, this particular fellow, who for now shall be known as The Gentleman, is diggable, i.e., I dig him. He's fun, creative, adventurous, and surprisingly chivalrous in a world of cads. I started off resisting the push of romance, but I think I've been won over. That makes me nervous.

While I'm constantly fighting off the old psychoses, not to mention the promise I made to myself that I would not date for a whole year from last December, there is still the strangest sense of impropriety to the whole thing, as if I shouldn't be dating again at all. It's this nagging little voice that says, "It's going to go exactly the same as before; why bother trying to stuff a sense of normalcy between cynicism and bitterness when you know how slippery it is?"

A lot of this is the past talking, coupled with advice from my elders that has stuck with me: "It is a naive infatuation." I can't have that be the case any longer; I need to know that I can feel real emotions for a real human being. The fact of the matter is that I enjoy spending time with The Gentleman more than I initially anticipated and that I want to have more adventures with him. In order to enjoy them more fully, however, I must learn to distinguish the emotions, both as I feel them and as others tell me I feel them. Then, maybe, I can get a grip on normalcy and maybe even enjoy guiltless dating. Inshallah...

Conference Always Brings Rain

I returned to Utah for my birthday weekend. As with many of my trips home, it just so happened to coincide with the LDS General Conference. To the unfamiliar, born and bred outside of Utah, I would describe General Conference as a cross between a hajj and a State of the Union Address. It is a time to gather the flock and show them how to graze for the next half of a year.

In any case, the top hierarchy of the Mormon church consists of a president and a Quorum of Twelve Apostles, the leader of the latter known by the name Elder Boyd K. Packer, a man of intense conviction. This morning as I read the paper, preparing to catch a plane, I caught some of Elder Packer's words on the subject of same-sex marriage, including my favorite quote, "A law against nature would be impossible to enforce. Do you think a vote to repeal the law of gravity would do any good?"

In any case, the bloggers and pundits are all weighing in, but I'd like to take a moment to point out one glaring flaw in his tirade. Addressing the evidence that homosexuality is an innate tendency, he replied with "Not so! Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Remember he is our father." And there, Elder Packer, is our spiritual flaw. Allow me to elaborate.

Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Surely, He would not be so cruel as to condemn an innocent baby to a life of ambient animosity or an onslaught of pity. One can spend one's entire life denying science as the Devil's sceptre. One can label genetics an urban legend all one wants (and reference the marriages between uncles and nieces on FLDS compounds), but if God truly controls the way we turn out at birth, then God is one fickle father. Why would God allow a child to be born with Cystic Fibrosis, Hemophilia, Lou Gehrig's Disease, Sickle-Cell Anemia, or Asperger's Syndrome? Or would He? Are these infants willful sinners who just need to pray more? Are there camps for that?

If Elder Packer can confirm God's role in genetic disorders while refuting God's role in homosexuality, or else condemn all of the above without distinction, I may lend his words a bit more credit. If he can clarify how the sinful lack of procreation only applies to LGBT people and not sterile or celibate ones, I may pay more attention. If he can explain why the LDS Church had to restore face after funding Proposition 8 if the Church is the true source of righteousness, I may respect him more. For now, I only hear the recitations of an angry old man, and empty recitation, I have found, is the death of spirituality.